"The drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty."
WHEN Harrison awoke the next morning it was with the remembrance of some great sorrow, like that after his little sister's death. He pressed his hands to his forehead, and presently the events of the previous evening rushed into his mind. It was not merely the loss, but the manner of the loss, which so distressed the poor child. The thought that his father, who, since entering the oyster-saloon, had never paid one farthing toward the support of his family, should be guilty of such insufferable meanness as to steal the earnings of his little son, was what crushed his young heart. For the first time since he had been old enough to work, his mother found it difficult to start him forth to his daily toil. He appeared wholly discouraged; and not until she appealed to him by his love for her and his sympathy in her afflictions, could she excite him to any ambition, or even hope for the future. Poor woman! It was indeed a great self-sacrifice for her to send him away from home. She actually yearned for his society and sympathy now that her heart-strings seemed one by one breaking, as her hopes for her husband died away within her breast. But she knew by past experience that he would be far happier to be engaged in his regular employment than if he sat down to brood over his griefs.
When he reached the hotel, a carriage was just driving away, and Harrison had only time to catch a glimpse of the beautiful face of Ella and the pale one of her brother before they turned the corner of the street and disappeared from view. Tears of disappointment filled the swollen eyes of the poor boy, though a moment before he had hoped that he should not see Ella that morning. How could he account to her for his altered appearance. He could never expose the shame of his father.
Through the day Mrs. Danforth waited and watched for the coming of her husband. She hoped he would return during the absence of Harrison. But she waited and watched in vain. Many times during the morning her heart beat fast, and then almost ceased to beat, as she fancied she recognized his footstep upon the stairs; but when it passed she was obliged to lay down her work, so faint and languid was she from the intense excitement. At noon Harrison had only time to run home and tell her that he had been sent of an errand up town, and should not return until night.
How she passed the long hours until sundown she never could tell; but at length she experienced such a dreadful pressure upon her spirits that she could endure it no longer. She hastily prepared for a walk, and bent her steps toward the fatal spot which had proved the grave of all her hopes for her husband's reformation. Arrived at the scene, she cast wistful glances through the long windows, but could not see him. It was a place where women were not often found, and she shuddered as she turned the handle of the door and stood within the room. A coarse-looking man stopped suddenly in his passage across the floor with a waiter of oysters, and she asked, in a hesitating manner; "Is Mr. Danforth here?"
"Danforth? No; he has not been here today. Mr. Lamson has scolded well, and threatened to give him walking orders; so if you see him you'd better send him along quick step."
"O! my poor misguided husband!" groaned Mrs. Danforth, as she feebly turned from the door. "Why will you wander from the only friend you have on earth! Why will you throw away the love of the one heart that clings to you in the midst of sorrow and disgrace!"
When Harrison ran hastily home after his long walk, he found the key turned in the door and his mother absent. This was so unusual a circumstance that he wondered much what could have called her out at such an hour. The busy scenes of the day had served to divert his mind from himself, and the natural buoyancy of youth had already turned the channel of his thoughts, so that hope once more whispered of bright visions in the future. But now, as he wandered listlessly about the rooms, looking so dismal at this hour without her whose smile had always seemed to give light and warmth to the place, he wondered that he could call any event sorrowful while she was left to him.
At last he heard a weary footstep ascending the stairs, and darted across the room to welcome his mother. The deepening twilight prevented him from seeing the expression of woe upon her features; but he knew she was tired, and exclaimed, cheerfully, "I'll put on the tea, mother! that always rests you." The table was already spread, and the mother and son seated themselves.
"I do wonder where father is?" cried Harrison, for the first time since his loss mentioning his father's name. "I guess he's ashamed to come home."